


sing & scream along to a gospel you no longer believe in

by oceansinmychest



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Mild Smut, Season/Series 02, Serena Joy centric fic, aka June catches Serena getting busy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 03:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20128606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: She sanctifies June for that which she lacks: a womb, a heart, a fighting spirit.





	sing & scream along to a gospel you no longer believe in

**Author's Note:**

> I had Hozier's "Run" on repeat while writing this one. I'm honestly not sure what the show is attempting to do with Serena's character... So, I decided to crank this out. Enjoy! x

Once Commander Waterford’s away, sirens dare to play. Serena Joy relishes the silence that comes after Fred’s business departure. Her household fears her or so she regards her Martha’s quiet compliance; she’s a sharp one and it’s useful to keep the sharpest tools on her side. Rita knows not to bother Serena once she excuses herself for an afternoon alone in her room.

Her bedroom is a safe haven and private retreat that Fred doesn’t dare wander into.

Daniel knows when a lioness cannot be whipped into submission.

Her aunt’s tinny, shrill voices reverberates within her skull: _Your words empower others, my sweet Joy, but you’re a shadow behind your husband._ For Auntie Joan’s beliefs and lifestyle, she was condemned to the camps: the same woman who offered Serena guidance and support during her college years, family who picked sunflowers alongside her, and held her after every heartbreak. At the memory, her stomach sinks.

Serena had once been a golden girl, praised for her track record, her brilliant academics, her life full of so much potential, and now she plays the role of pretty wife pining after motherhood. Isn’t motherhood meant to fill the void?

Is this how it feels to be irrevocably damned? How miserable. She pretends to not be sick of herself.

A puppet in the guise of a woman operates under her own moral code, beginning to unravel and detangle her strings. She steps forward, her feet bare against the cool floorboards.

Wasted potential lays down, the quilt handsewn by her mother now subdued by Gilead’s creed. Her weary head rests on the overstuffed pillow, the white an attractant to dust and dirt. Flickering candlelight bestows her with a dim halo. Her head turns to one side so that her hazy, blue eyes connect with the wilted orchid on the windowsill. It reminds her of some Georgia O’Keefe painting now branded as sacrilege. Her sanctuary, her greenhouse, will never rival the Garden of Eden.

Joan of Arc keeps her armor intact. Maybe she’ll hang on the wall for her blasphemous thoughts. The look on Fred’s face would be priceless.

Shame keeps her covered without any time for a seductive reveal. Only Jezebels can pull off such a licentious dance. She envies them, she envies most. A quick rubdown ought to get the job done. There is no need to unwrap herself for _her_ self, the urgency lies in the wake of her actions, the fervent meandering of her fingers. A protective layer of clothing, negligent towards the sheets, makes her feel safe.

Now, she takes the risk. If spotted, she’ll play the lying game. Deny and gaslight, blame her need on a migraine or hysteria which has resurfaced in this frightening, modern age. She pays selfish devotion to her altar. It reads as a ritual. Maybe she wants to be God and call it a day.

In her tainted and tormented disposition, she shifts in place, a side to side shimmy that resembles a crude dance. She claws at her breasts, the bra another prison that confines her. A rougher squeeze gives her something to feel, the heat burning far below her belly.

Coated in a light sheen of perspiration, desire makes a fool of her. She longs for the discretion and respite of a vibrator, now deemed contraband in this backwards society. So, Serena teases her tight, wet heat as if she wasn’t in Gilead, as if she was free to pleasure herself in America.

When Serena Joy touches herself, it’s not Fred she fantasizes about. She imagines a firm yet delicate touch. A woman's caress. She fantasizes about rose petal lips against her own.

_I shouldn’t have held her down. That rite_\- She cuts herself off before the mood, the desire, is lost.

How would she taste? How would she feel? That rebellious, brazen, fiery spirit nips at her heels. June may be a fucking iconoclast, but she still wants her. _Maddening_.

Need reminds her of her humanity. For so long, she chose to hide herself, her desires, her brazen hopes and dreams for a utopia turned dystopia, but that was never the issue - was it?

She bites her lip and tastes the price of salt, blood in her mouth, as atonement for the society she helped to build. It doesn't detour her.

Fabric proves to be too much of a veritable challenge. The friction from the fabric adds pressure to her aching, swollen clit. Probing fingers push aside her light blue panties meant to symbolize some warped version of innocence. A delicate touch dips below the waistband as she pays her temple respect in the art of self-worship. With her knees canted, she doesn’t play herself for a violin, her strokes are too furious, too insistent. A sea of turquoise flows over the haphazard bedspread. All she feels is an ache, a hellfire need, a slow burn.

Was God always this empty?

Even Salomé would be proud of the way she writhes upon the marital bed, her fingers exploring, prodding, and probing her thoroughly soaked sex. Timed thrusts rival the fell swoop of Gabriel’s sword. _Christ._ This is the wettest she's ever been.

A sigh, a delicate whimper, slithers out while she shifts and twists on the lonely marital bed. No prayers, no Hail Mary, only an exhalation of breath is taken from the wicked and the damned. With Fred away, she allows for herself to be louder: no stifled moans, lost as a silent cry to her God who doesn’t listen. She singles a deep-throated (hymn) hum, a guttural moan as her insides flutter and pulse.

Distracted by her thoughts run rampant, chasing euphoria seems near unattainable. Yet, in the land of hypocrisy, the ambient drizzle lures her deeper into her wildly spun fantasies. Hedonistic pleasure calls itself primal instinct. Stubbornly, Serena chases completion. Her strict, near authoritarian bun loosens, bobby pins digging into her scalp. A pity for her that not even this stolen moment can satisfy her.

These days, she likens herself to be a caged tiger, pacing in the house, a dignified woman of presentation yet still standing behind her husband who’s a (fountainhead; what would Ayn Rand have to say?) figurehead in Gilead. Offred is a wild, untamed spirit, unattainable, unequivocally resistant; how Serena wishes she could be more like her.

Lost in her thoughts, she chases after salvation. With growing fervor, she thrusts deep inside, knuckles deep. Two fingers is enough, a third teasing her clit in furious circles, apropos to Dante's layered descent. A loose, mangled fist hits the mattress.

A spark of recognition flashes within her dark, blue eyes: June is her foil, her mirror, the antithesis to her thesis. Would her plush mouth taste saccharine and divine?

She sanctifies June for that which she lacks: a womb, a heart, a fighting spirit.

As if on cue, she summons her antagonist and maybe, maybe in time, her saving grace. 

Rattling door hinges sing a hymn. Gradually, it creaks open a sliver. She hears the hinges rattle and groan. In Gilead, everything’s archaic. She mewls a name that isn’t Commander Waterfords, torn and husky.

June, a red-eyed fury, is a vision to behold swathed in scarlet, her derisive hand on the warped, wooden frame. She cants her head swathed in that hideous cowl. How Serena wishes she could catch a glimpse of honeyed blonde hair. Gasping, she collapses, her swollen lips pursed, her cunt squeezing her fingers until exhaustion overrides her body. Frozen as a doe with a powerful kick to confront the inevitable headlights, she watches Serena experience a little death.

“Don’t,” she swallows her stubborn pride in between pants, her skirt a basin of fresh water to drink from. “Don’t go, _June_.”


End file.
